The Artsy Mistake Mystery

by Sylvia McNicoll

  “I irritate them? You’re the one who didn’t tell them about the bass and swordfish until they made you empty your pockets.”

  As always, she has a point. Neither of us made a good impression on the two constables. “Come on, then. Could you maybe just let me do the talking?” I don’t wait for an answer as we both make our way back to the entrance of the room. I lower my voice as we get closer to them. “Can you also not bring up exploding Reuven’s backpack?”

  “I won’t say a word.”

  “Hi, Constables. Are you planning to take Attila away?” I ask.

  Renée elbows me hard.

  “Why would we do that?” Constable Jurgensen asks. “He’s out on bail right now. Does he look like a flight risk?”

  “No, no! He’s not going to make a break for it. I just thought because he painted that gun on the water tower.” I point to the slide as it comes up again.

  “No one’s complained,” Constable Wilson says and we both stare at the gun. “Pretty realistic, isn’t it?”

  “You’d swear it was going to fire on us, wouldn’t you?” Constable Jurgensen says.

  Constable Wilson nods. “But just because Attila has a photo on a slide doesn’t mean he personally vandalized a water tower.”

  “I don’t even know where that tower is,” Constable Jurgensen says. “Do you?” he asks his partner.

  “Nope. Probably not in our jurisdiction.” She smiles.

  I guess neither read the artist’s statement.

  “Yes, but he painted a gun, which could mean he used Mr. Rupert’s as a model,” I say, wondering why they’re both so nice all of a sudden.

  Renée kicks me this time. “He could have used a picture!” I knew she couldn’t last. “Maybe Attila took his image from the internet.”

  “Maybe,” Constable Jurgensen says. “’Cause the one on the tower is a semi-automatic. The one we found in the school library is a revolver. An older model.”

  “An antique really. I would have thought he’d paint the one he stole,” Constable Wilson says.

  “Be a convenient model, for sure,” Constable Jurgensen agrees.

  “Makes me wonder if he’s innocent,” Constable Wilson says.

  Renée just can’t help herself. “Attila didn’t steal Mr. Rupert’s mailbox, either.” Her voice grows louder as she defends him, mistake number seven of the day. No one ever believes you when you shout. “Attila was trying to put the mailbox back.” Renée’s words cut through all the chatter in the gallery. “It’s his girlfriend who took it. She’s somewhere in this room.” Around us, conversations seem to stop as Renée’s tone turns shrill. Everyone stops to look at us as she continues. “You should arrest …”

  DAY THREE, MISTAKE EIGHT

  She’s planning to announce the criminal later, anyway. I don’t know why I tense up. That’s what she told some people to convince them to come to the show today. Although most of them didn’t need convincing. Most of the suspects seem to be artists who were planning to attend, anyway.

  “Go on, whom should we arrest?” Constable Jurgensen asks.

  “What she means to say” — I lower my voice and wait for people go back to their own conversations — “is that there are so many other people who could be involved in the art heists.”

  “Art heists?” Constable Jurgensen says.

  “Yes,” I whisper. “Our crossing guard just admitted to removing the swordfish and bass from our Stream of Dreams.”

  “That leaves a couple hundred others,” Constable Jurgensen says.

  “We have reason to believe Mr. Jirad might know something about them. Someone left a bunch of our fish in his son’s wagon.”

  “Mrs. Ron over there uses them as coasters,” Renée adds.

  Constable Jurgensen scratches his head now.

  Constable Wilson just smiles.

  “You have to wonder about anyone’s motive,” I say. “Why does someone want a mailbox that looks like Mr. Rupert’s house?”

  “Or a bunch of painted wooden fish?” Renée pipes in.

  “Or a sculpture of Grumpy? Although I really like it myself.”

  Constable Jurgensen gives me the stink eye.

  “But I would never steal it,” I quickly add. “C’mon, they’re our neighbours. They might notice if their lawn ornament ended up in our yard.”

  “It’s the gun left behind in the school we’re most concerned with,” says Constable Wilson.

  Speaking of Grumpy … suddenly, from out of the crowd in the other corner, a loud voice booms, “Oh my God!”

  “You’ll excuse us,” Constable Wilson says, and she and Constable Jurgensen turn toward that voice.

  “Follow them.” Renée grabs me by the hand before I can agree, and we become their tails as they bustle through the museum guests.

  A bunch of people stand gaping in front of a large exhibit.

  “Maybe you should have your cellphone ready,” I tell Renée. After all, she took a picture when Reuven’s backpack exploded in the sandbox.

  We move past the centre of the room to where I see most of our neighbours crowded around the exhibit: Mr. Jirad, Mrs. Watier, Mr. Kowalski, Mrs. Whittingham and August, my father, Renée’s mom, even the Lebels with their white-haired children, and we didn’t even invite them. Mrs. Klein stands next to Mr. Rupert, one hand on his back, rubbing it.

  “The installation is really quite remarkable. Stolen Art it’s called,” Mrs. Irwin explains. “But it’s … not classical art … more everyday.”

  Finally, we break through and see the display.

  Our fish! Grumpy! Mrs. Whittingham’s dead baby doll and Halloween raven!

  “That’s my wife’s art!” Mr. Rupert’s voice moans.

  He’s right. His mailbox sits on one side of the installation. Will he kill someone now? We push closer and I see his mouth hanging open. Mrs. Klein drapes her arm over his shoulder.

  “She finished this one at the hospice.” Mr. Rupert sounds like a wounded animal, a dog, maybe. “It was her best work.” He pulls out a handkerchief from his pocket and blows his nose loudly like a trumpet.

  “The detail is incredible,” Mrs. Klein says. “It looks exactly like your house.”

  “That’s our Halloween baby doll,” a kid whines from next to us. It’s August, twirling a strand of his hair between his thumb and forefinger.

  Mrs. Whittingham nods. “Yes, they took our display without asking. Kind of rude.” She digs her fists into her hips.

  “I like my swing empty,” August says. “So I can use it.”

  Mrs. Whittingham shrugs, steps back, and crosses her arms over her chest. “Really interesting, I have to say.”

  Our Stream of Dreams fish, except for the swordfish, bass, and Mrs. Ron’s coasters, “swim” from wires that hold them to the ceiling in the same rainbow shape as they were in on the school fence. Under one side of the arc, the Halloween stuff and the Grumpy sculpture stand, grim and grey. On the other, that one beautiful mailbox-house sits. But it brightens up the whole display, giving it a sense of love and home.

  “I wish I could have known Mrs. Rupert,” Renée says out loud.

  Mr. Rupert honks his nose again.

  I read the artist’s statement out loud. “‘A world with and without art,’ signed ‘the Burlington Group of Four.’” Underneath is a silhouette of four people shaded out in black.

  “I wonder who they are,” Mrs. Klein says.

  “A real mystery,” Red, our grade eight friend says.

  “Not to me,” Renée brags loudly.

  This is mistake eight, similar to mistake seven when she was too loud about defending Attila. But in this case, she may be taunting our criminal, forcing his or her hand, which is not quite the same. Everyone turns to look at her.

  Near the mailbox side of the fish, Star stands right next to Ms.
Lacey, the Animal Control officer. She doesn’t look angry with her anymore. They actually look pretty chummy.

  “Once the speeches are done,” Renée continues, “I will announce their names. They stole all the pieces to their art installation, after all.”

  Star squints at me and frowns, then takes out her cellphone, leans over to Ms. Lacey, and says something in her ear. Oh, come on! Is she really showing her the photo of her nose wound, the one poor Ping accidentally caused?

  Ping may be facing big trouble because of Renée’s announcement.

  DAY THREE, MISTAKE NINE

  I pull Renée as far away from Star as possible, for her own safety, as well as my own. “C’mon, let’s go get a ballot.”

  “Maybe some grapes and cheese, too.”

  “Sure.” I glance around as we walk, waving at Dad’s Rottweiler client. “I don’t see your brother anywhere. Do you?”

  “No, but your dad just walked over to the punch bowl.”

  We join him. Dad sips at some red liquid from a glass cup.

  “Did you vote already?” Renée asks.

  “Yes. There was no doubt in my mind about the best piece of art here.” Dad makes a fist against his chest. “You feel it right inside you.”

  Renée smiles as she rips off a couple of pieces of paper.

  “Do you need a pen?” Dad asks and hands me one.

  Renée and I both write down Weapons of Destruction. It’s not even because Attila is her brother. Dad’s right. There’s no way you can look at the slides and not feel something.

  “Where’s my mother?” Renée asks.

  Dad nods in the direction of our two police officers, who look almost as though they are guarding the Stolen Art exhibit. Mrs. Kobai shuffles through the crowd behind them.

  I spread some brie on a cracker. “Here.” I give it to Renée. “High-fat dairy can be soothing.”

  She takes it and nibbles. “It is very good.”

  I spread a cracker for myself and then put it down immediately when Renée starts choking.

  “Can you breathe?” She’s doubled over, hacking into her hand.

  I reach both arms around her, ready to perform the Heimlich.

  “Stop … yes,” she rasps. “My father just walked in.”

  I release her and look toward the door. A tall man in a dark suit stands, arms crossed, watching the slides of Weapons of Destruction. His frown reminds me of Attila’s. He’s tough looking, too, except his head, which is completely shaved, shaped like a bullet, and shining in the light.

  “Your attention, everybody.” Mrs. Irwin taps at a microphone near the back of the room. “Please make sure you have your ballots in for the People’s Choice Award. We’re going to be counting those votes in a moment.”

  Renée and I fold our slips of paper and move toward the ballot box. We wait as others slide their votes in.

  “I’m voting for Stolen Art,” Mr. Rupert says loudly. “My wife’s mailbox is the most beautiful piece in the room.”

  “Mmm.” Mrs. Klein stares up at the hand grenade on the railcar slide, her mouth moving in a kind of I-can’t-decide Watusi. She holds a ballot in her hand. It still appears blank. “So much talent in Burlington,” she says. “I love the graffiti slides. Those weapons painted so big and bold … well, they just make me shiver.”

  Mr. Rupert grumbles something in her ear.

  “She likes weapons?” I whisper to Renée.

  “She likes a guy who runs around in a camouflage uniform, too,” she whispers back.

  Mrs. Klein’s companion turkey, or maybe companion soldier, is Mr. Rupert. She was afraid at night in the school after that car crashed into the building a couple of weeks ago. Mr. Rupert makes her feel safe; who can blame her?

  He sure doesn’t make me feel safe, though. Especially, I don’t want him to meet up with the Burlington Group of Four, although at least the police have his gun. Or at least I think they’ve kept it as evidence.

  A red-haired man in a jacket with a name tag comes and picks up the ballot box.

  “Just one more second, young man!” Mrs. Klein calls. She bends over the table and scribbles something on her ballot.

  The man doesn’t look all that young. Judging by the colour of hair, I think he’s Red’s dad. Red told us he worked here.

  Finally, Mrs. Klein folds it and pops it into the slot on the top of the box. “Thank you, dearie, you can take it now.”

  He smiles and offers the box around. “Anybody else?” He waits for a moment but there are no more voters. “All right, then.” He walks away.

  “Everyone, everyone,” Mrs. Irwin calls. “Please fill up your glasses and plates and then draw around. The presentations are about to begin.”

  I grab a stack of whole-grain crackers and slice off a mound of goat cheese. Renée’s mouth looks like a squeezed lemon, so I have a feeling she needs more dairy de-stressing.

  People gather closer to the front of the room

  “Ladies and gentlemen, may I present Mayor Silverring.”

  Everyone applauds enthusiastically. I can’t, though, not with the plate in my hand. Dad and Mrs. Kobai stand near Mr. Jirad’s bonsai escarpment art and we join them. Mr. Kobai stays at the back.

  “You know a city not by its factories or stores. Or even by its houses or condo high-rises or roads and sidewalks.” He goes on for a while about all the things you don’t know a city by, and I duck behind Dad to spread some cheese on crackers. I pass one to Renée and munch on one myself.

  Finally, he finishes with, “You know a city by its art.”

  “And the people who create that art …”

  People clap again.

  “Today, our community has come together to celebrate art that speaks directly to it, art that we have made ourselves, about ourselves.”

  This time I hold the plate in my teeth and clap along with the crowd.

  “I now pass the microphone back to Jessica Irwin, Mohawk College’s esteemed dean of art. She will present the prizes for this year’s show.”

  The room breaks into applause again and Mrs. Irwin smiles as she takes the mayor’s place.

  “Thank you, thank you, thank you. I am so happy to see all of you out here. Art does not feed or clothe our bodies but it does feed and clothe our souls. I am so glad you recognize this and have come out to celebrate our own soul food.”

  “And soul clothes,” Renée whispers to me.

  “In the past, I have been discouraged by the lack of value placed on music, literature, and art, but today, today, I am proven wrong.

  “I would like to call up my colleague Mr. William Kowalski.”

  While the others are clapping, Renée and I eat the last of the crackers. There’s only a small bump of cheese left now.

  Mr. Kowalski finally makes it through the crowd, and Mrs. Irwin gives him a big, long hug. Not sure whether she’s secretly choking him. Then she breaks away and speaks into the mic again.

  “William and I have a bet, you see — which I believe he cheated on.” She wags her finger at him. “I bet him that no one would ever steal the art we had in our staff room. That no one stole art anymore. The loser would add five hundred dollars to the prize for the winner of the art contest. Behind me today is direct proof that I have lost that bet: the Stolen Art exhibit; although I feel he may have orchestrated the stealing of that art. Nevertheless, the fact that you are all here also backs up the heart of his bet, which is quite simply that people do indeed value art. This is a bet I am so happy to lose. So I want you all to witness Bill receiving my cheque made out to the winner of the art show this year.”

  There are whistles and whoops as she pulls out an envelope and hands it to him.

  “Would you kindly read out the name on the cheque and the winner of this year’s Burlington Art Award?”

  Mr. Kowalski smiles as he tears
open the envelope. His smile grows even bigger when he looks at the cheque. “The winner is Attila Kobai for Weapons of Destruction.”

  Mistake number nine of the day turns out to be when Renée throws her arms around me and hugs me — forgetting all about that bit of goat cheese left on the plate between us.

  DAY THREE, MISTAKE TEN

  Somehow enough white crumbly cheese squishes over both of our shirts that we look like a seagull dumped on us. Renée shrugs her shoulders. “Sorry.”

  I roll my eyes and shake my head. But then, I forget everything and turn to watch as Attila saunters up to accept his prize. He’s dressed in a black shirt and skinny jeans with boots, a formal look for him. When he gets close enough, Mrs. Irwin reaches out and shakes his hand, then gives him the cheque, as well as a framed certificate. She gestures toward him and smiles. The audience applauds and Attila gives a quick, small head bow. His mouth remains straight as an arrow.

  As Mrs. Kobai snaps a picture with her phone, Renée turns around to look at her father. Her eyebrows knit. I turn, too. Mr. Kobai’s arms remain folded across his chest. His mouth stays as straight as Attila’s. Neither are big smilers, I guess.

  I can hear Renée sigh as we both turn back to watch the presentation of the other prizes.

  Mrs. Irwin continues. “Taking second place is …” She pauses for drama and then rushes the words. “Barbara Filipowicz for School Children of Burlington.”

  Madame X shrieks with joy.

  Well, that’s more like it.

  We clap madly along with everyone else.

  Mrs. Filipowicz marches crossing-guard style to the front and receives an envelope and certificate. She lines up beside Attila.

  “Third place is … Azid Jirad for Bonsai on the Escarpment.”

  Mr. Jirad does a little dance, runs up, and high-fives Mrs. Filipowicz. They both turn to Attila, who nods and shakes their hands.

  Red’s dad steps in from a backroom and whispers something into Mrs. Irwin’s ear. Her eyebrows shoot up.

  She leans toward the microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen, there will be a short delay as we recount the votes for the People’s Choice Award. At this point, it seems we may have a tie.”